Scarthae
by Moonlit Aura
Summary: Beowulf The Great hero Beowulf slew the evil dragon as his final heroic deed. Herein lies the dragon's reflections on the events and the relationship between Humans and Monsters.


You know, I'm not entirely sure why I'm posting this, apart from the fact that I liked how it turned out. It started as a school assignment with a lot of creative freedom and ended as this. Have a look if you wish, review if you feel the need, and if you've ever read Beowulf, pat yourself on the back because I know few who have.

Also, I couldn't think of anywhere else this could fit, so it is where it is. I'm just mad that the Odyssey has a section and Beowulf doesn't.

Enough about me. Read if you wish.

Scarthae

You laugh as you tell me of the man-hero that defeated you, the one you knew as Nobody, and latter found out was called Odysseus. You speak fondly of him, as we all do of our destructors. In the World after life, we no longer hold grudges as we once did. And now you are asking for the story of my destructor, who I killed. You ask for that tale, and, with all of eternity ahead of us, I will tell you of the one whose courage defeated me and he who killed me, and who I killed in return. I will tell you of Wiglaf and Beowulf.

For centuries I lived in the northern lands the men call Sweden. There was a man-tribe nearby, as there always was in those days, but we lived in peace. I had no desire to expand my treasure trove; instead, I chose to enrich my mind. I spent my days reading literature of old, both of my own people, and that of the humans.

I saw inside their minds, into their souls. I learned what they saw as moral and what they condemned as evil. I learned what traits they praised and what acts they despised. I discovered what they saw as their ideal, both of the ultimate heroes and the most terrible of villains.

You, of course, know that for as long as they have existed, humans have seen our people as objects of terror. They have cowered in our shadow since the dawn of time, despising us all the while. Until then, we knew only that they hated and feared us, with us responding in kind. But I became the first of us to learn _why_.

My hoarding of wealth they saw as _greed_, a sin to them. They saw my fire and saw _anger_ that has never exited. They saw my crown of spines and saw _weapons_ of destruction. They saw my feeding and saw _murder_, the gravest of all their sins.

It did not matter that I carried away those whom they despised, those whom they had already condemned to death, those whom they knew _deserved_ death. To them, all deaths by us are the same, and, reading and learning of their minds, I discovered that _that_ was the fundamental difference between us.

We are the exception, of course. Vile creatures, bringers of death. Their own people can kill their own kind as they please and yet it is _us _that came to represent the foulest of death-dealers. We, who have never killed our own kin, are their symbols of all evils.

But I digress, I was speaking of a brief period of peace between I and my human neighbors. Yes, things were well. They brought their criminals, their sinners to me, and I devoured them all. It was their foulest I feasted upon and we formed a bond of friendship.

You laugh at the idea of a friendship with man, yet still, in al the ways it mattered, that is what it was. My presence deterred most invaders, and my flames chased the brave ones off. They brought me food, and, not having to hunt for my meals, I was able to understand them still better. I wish those times had lasted.

It sounds like I respect them, you say? Yes, perhaps I did. I found their love of life enchanting, and their struggle against leaving amusing. Men have yet to learn that death comes to all, that it is useless to resist. But I found their fight exhilarating, and so I did my best to aid them. That town of men, its inhabitants became my children.

However, all things end, and so did our happy peace. One night, while I was out stretching my wings, a human came into my den and destroyed that which was my most precious. No, it was not silver or gold or jewels – though he destroyed those as well, except for the cup he took as a trophy. That miserable existence burned my collection of knowledge, accumulated over my many long years on the Great Mother Earth.

I shall admit, I was a bit hasty in my anger, but when I found that the creature that had stolen my knowledge was hiding in the town of my children, I felt it was my duty to purge it of that presence. And it was revealed that it had been the son of their greatest leader, and when I killed him, my children turned on me, declared me evil, and sought my destruction.

No, I do not hate them. I was angry with them, that they had turned so easily into the type of humans which I despised, but I never have, and never shall, hate them.

They tried to defeat me on their own, but their blunt twigs they called weapons were of no use; if there is one thing I pride myself on, it is my scales, harder then anything else on earth.

When their own efforts failed, they turned to their leader, the man-hero known as Beowulf, he who defeated Hertha and her spawn, Grendel.

You say you have heard that tale already? You have heard how he ripped the young Grendel's arm off with his bare hands? How he killed Hertha with her own sword, fashioned by your own kin? Then there is no need to tell you that Beowulf was the greatest warrior of men. I have never seen a man with his strength since, in my time of watching them from this World.

Yes, he was a great warrior, the greatest, but when he came to me he was already crippled by time, muscles weakened with age. He was blessed by his years with great knowledge, but knowledge would not help him defeat my strength.

And Beowulf, hero of men, slayer of the People, champion to some, yet the bane of others, he came to my lair with eleven of his bravest kin. They came to watch his glory, to assist him, if need be. Yet in the end, they fell prey to the struggle for their life.

No, they were not killed, not by me, and not by any of us that I know of. They were killed by age. Yet at the moment when their symbol of all that was good needed them, required assistance for the first and only time, they were struck by a value of their own lives. They placed their lives above that of the man who had saved them many times before, and they fled before my flames.

And yet, one stayed. A kin of Beowulf's, Wiglaf by name, he stayed and risked death so that he could aid his king. I have never seen such bravery. That young Wiglaf was that which I hoped all men could be, and so I did not mind too greatly that I died, since it was he that killed me.

Oh yes, it was Beowulf that struck the final blow, but it was Wiglaf's courage that gave him the chance to do so. So I have always looked upon Wiglaf as my killer.

But, according to the rules of men, in striking the final blow, Beowulf had made himself my killer. And it is to him that men attach glory. It is in his grave that my treasure sits, my gold and jewels, and Wiglaf's name has been lost to time.

In a way though, I struck a blow for the man who would be lost, for Wiglaf. I had gravely wounded Beowulf, and it was my struggle that ended his. I gave Wiglaf a land to rule, and he became the wisest of all their kings. Beowulf was their warrior-king, but Wiglaf was their heart-king.

And now I have told all there is to know of my destroyers. I was more fortunate than many, as I had two. But which was the true destroyer? I'll let you be the judge.

Now I must go, for Wiglaf and I are meeting for mead soon. I will always prefer tea, but if it is my friend's wish that we drink man's liquid of joy, who am I to argue?

Yeah. I'm not gonna say anything. ::Authoress slinks back to work on Restoring Faith like a good girl::


End file.
